


My Light in the Dark

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Descriptive Goodness, Just Some Star!John/Kid!Lock Meeting Fluff, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Star!John, diary entries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never enjoyed the darkness.</p>
<p>He finds something to mask the blackness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Light in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> The history of Stars and Humans is of my own personal creation, though, the creation of Star!John and such AUs are of shootbadcabbies. I simply adore this AU, so just had to write up a little something special for it. It's not my best ending, but it's heart-warming, and I think that's enough. <3 xx

Sherlock never enjoyed the darkness.

The chewing blackness, hot and angry against his damp skin, twisting up in rings of smoke and soot in his mind, aching through his clattering bones. His knees knocked together as he squirmed beneath his bedclothes, his whimpers quaking in the nipping air. His fingers scrambled for consistent grip of his duvet, but the perspiration dripping along the lines of his palms enhanced the difficulty. His eyes clenched shut, obscuring darkness with darkness. Breeding further ropes of black, coiling tight around his throat, suffocating the dwindling light surrounding his thoughts.

But it wasn’t the darkness that terrified him the most.

It was the lack of light. The absence of luster. The death of illumination. The withering luminosity.

It felt as chilling as the pit in his heart, a cage of filtering darkness, seeping into the rest of him, feeding him to the dark of the night.

He didn’t ask for much. He didn’t need much.

All Sherlock Holmes, age seven and three quarters, ever really wanted was, well, a friend. It didn’t have to be his Star, if he even had such a beautiful thing, no, all he wanted was a little someone who wouldn’t shove him against walls and call him a freak. A friend, is all.

Suppose that was too much to ask for, after all.

.~*~.

_Sixth of April, 1989_

_Dear Diary,_

_Still no friend, still no Star. I guess you’re stuck with me for another day._

_\- Sherlock Holmes (Age seven)_

.~*~.

“Freak, c’mere!” came a fiery, territorial growl, spilling past the lips of a particular Sally Donovan, one small hand tucked neatly in Anderson’s, forcing a distasteful swallow from Sherlock. He kept himself curled, shoulders pushed inwards, head hanging, as his feet skipped over the pavement, hasty to shuffle away.

“Oi, Freak, we want you here!” she persisted, with an agitated huff.

There was a resonating grumble; a trembling bursting; a sound which slithered deep into Sherlock’s tension, and dispersed the terror and the throbbing ache engraved far into him. It was like his mother’s hand, protective as her fingers squeezed,  The reaction was an intake of breath, quick and reticent, uncertain of its safety to be voiced.

“What the—” Sally sank her teeth into her own tongue, silencing herself, eyes grown big in utter, explicit astonishment.

A Star. Of course it was a Star.

He was on his knees, eyes shaking with excitement, mind scattered with the explosion of finally, after months, after years, being needed by his Human. He scrambled to his naked feet - ha, he had feet! - and steadied himself, careful in adjust to the profound force of gravity. No more floating in endless skies, unfortunately.

He was bare to his hips, where loose cotton trousers, dyed a dusty beige, hung, as Stars were much too appropriate to appear indecently, especially when in the presence of their Human. His skin was tawny, with a freckled, glittery brightness. His hair was the colour of straw, mussed and askew atop his head. His smile glowed, his straightened teeth each a shimmering, sea-shined pearl, lined up as soldiers, savouring the attention they were, evidently, receiving from the Human they were fashioned for.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he mumbled, his tongue heavy and foreign, the language still attempting to be grappled.

“M-Me?” Sherlock’s register was small and diffident, devoid of any questionable amount of confidence. The Star’s head pricked up, and he fumbled with his movements, hurriedly tripping towards Sherlock, nodding feverishly.

“Yes, yes, you! You are Sherlock!” he knocked away Sherlock’s books, and pressed their palms together, as their small fingers entwined.

“I’m John. Your Star.”

John. His. Star. His Star. His John. Sherlock’s. His. Good lord.

“Sherlock?”

John’s head was tipped minutely, eyes searing with concern. My, oh my, his eyes were an ocean, truly. Wrecked collisions of violets and sapphires and lazulines. Made Sherlock’s poor, unused heart skip and leap and quiver.

“S-Sorry, I, uh, I just...”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t know I had a Star,” he blurted out, as his cheeks flushed a helpless, healthy sanguine.

“Everyone has a Star, Sherlock. That’s how this world is. Every Human has their other half, right up there, waiting to come and give them the love they need.” John recited, gesturing to the welcoming sky above, his candor compelling a salty wetness to sting the corners of Sherlock’s squeezed-shut eyes. John squeaked in protest, tugging Sherlock firmly against him, pressing their chests together, his arms winding securely round Sherlock’s neck.

“I don’t want you to cry, Sherlock. You should be happy. Most Humans and Stars meet much later in life. We get to be together for so many years now!” John wished to inflate Sherlock’s happiness, not deflate. That was his purpose. To bring joy and adoration to his pieced apart other half.

“Thank you.” was all Sherlock managed to croak out in reply, his face buried into the warmth of the crook of John’s neck, who smelled of biscuits and morning dew and crackling fires and Christmas sweets, all the wondrous things Sherlock purposefully deprived himself of. His own arms cautiously bracketed John’s middle, an embrace John gladly leaned into, physically showing his approval.

“Thank you, Sherlock, for wishing upon me.”

“You’re the one who listened.”

“It’s all I ever did.”

“Really?”

“You’re my heart, my core, the centre of my being and existence. I would not be here without you. You’re my everything, my Human, my Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s upper lip quivered, and he released a strangled sob, his knees buckling by the blistering realisation that he was no longer alone. He had a friend, he had his Star. He needn’t wish for anything more. He was held in the arms of another, who was attentive and hot with devotion and destined to stick to his side, till the very last of their days.

Maybe the night time isn’t something to be so fearful of, not anymore. He had a special kind of ethereal, ever-lasting, eternal lamp of showered light, one which was pleased to block out the dark, always.

.~*~.

_Sixth of April, 2014_

_Dear Diary,_

_I forgot to tell you. I’ve found my Star. Well, found him twenty-five years ago, on this very day, to be exact. Suppose I don’t need you anymore. Thank you, for sticking with me, my friend._

_\- Sherlock Watson-Holmes (Age thirty-two)_


End file.
